Of Bugs and Treehouses
by Lily Winterwood
Summary: Every summer, John Watson and his sister go to the Cotswolds. This summer, he meets a young Sherlock Holmes. Tentative title.
1. Plasters on My Knees

**Title:** Of Bugs and Treehouses (tentative title)  
><strong>CharactersPairings:** young!Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Harriet. Others to come, probably  
><strong>Genre:<strong> General  
><strong>RatingsWarnings:** G, PG at the most?  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Every summer, John Watson and his sister go to the Cotswolds. This summer, he meets a young Sherlock Holmes.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own the BBC adaptation of Sherlock, Nancy Drew, or the Hardy Boys.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> This fic was inspired in full by sherlulz on tumblr who drew a picture of young!John and Sherlock in the forest.

**Part I**

Every summer, Mum would take me and Harry off to the Cotswolds to visit her sister in a cottage near the forests. We'd been doing this since Harry was a tot. She doesn't like it much now.

Harry's my sister. She's kinda tall but kinda plump, too, and she never plays with me. When we were littler, though, we'd play dragon and knight all the time. I was the dragon. She got the princess.

But now we're older. Harry's eleven and won't talk to me because I'm just her kid brother, which wasn't fair because I'm nine. Not a kid. She didn't want to go on the summer trip, and Mum had to frogmarch her into the car to get us going. Harry didn't talk to me or even look at me.

"Now remember, John, Harry," Mum lectured from up front. "Don't go too far into the forest."

"Yes, Mum," we chorused.

"You say that every year," grumbled Harry, pouting. I watched her cross her arms and skulk for a moment before pulling out a Nancy Drew book. I'd snuck some of Harry's books when she wasn't looking, and I didn't really see what she saw in Nancy – she was a bit _too_ talented, I thought. Not that I didn't mind talented, really. Talent's okay. Nancy was just too _perfect_.

I preferred the Hardy Boys, anyway.

Aunt Petunia's cottage was old but familiar. She'd had it as long as I could remember, after all, so of course it had to be old. It was just down the road from a big old stone mansion that belonged to the Holmes family, but I'd never seen anyone in there. Actually, no. I had seen people in there, but just as lights and shadows. Nothing else. I'd always wondered if they had people our age. My age. I get so dreadfully bored nowadays because Harry ignores me.

Harry ran inside with her things as soon as we stopped. Mum and I greeted Aunt Petunia; she'd grown skinnier and older and a lot less happy-looking. I guess it's because Uncle Billy died a long time ago and she hadn't gotten over him. I had been two.

My old room in Aunt Petunia's cottage was just the way I'd left it, only with changed sheets. Aunt Petunia had dusted everything, though, because she had left her duster on my desk. I liked my desk; it had lots of drawers and a bright lamp for reading. From the window I could see the forest and a bit of the Holmes mansion. There were no lights.

I liked it in the Cotswolds, really. I must sound so sad about going here, but I'm not. Really. A whole summer running around through the forest and climbing trees was lots of fun! Harry killed some of it by not playing along, but I honestly loved Aunt Petunia's house and the big forest just beyond the backyard.

I looked out at the trees. This summer I was going to build a treehouse.

* * *

><p>I didn't have a very good morning. On the way down I bumped my shoulder bad and fell down the stairs. Mum put a plaster on my left knee. It hurt. I had to limp into the kitchen. Harry snorted at me so I stuck my tongue out at her.<p>

After breakfast – it was really good; Aunt Petunia makes the best bacon and eggs – I was going to go to the woods to find a good tree for my treehouse, but Mum pulled me aside. She looked serious about something and for a moment I wondered if I'd accidentally done something wrong like leave the seat up again.

"Be careful, Johnny," she whispered, patting my bandaged knee. "Aunty's told me that some bad things have been happening in the woods this year. People have disappeared."

"Disappeared?" I echoed.

"Yes, gone. Snatched. You better make sure you don't get lost, dear. Here." She handed me a compass with a smile on your face. "Uncle Billy's old compass. He'd want you to have it now that you're a big boy."

"Thanks, Mum," I replied, smiling and trying to look brave. Who'd gone missing in that forest?

"Who'd gone missing?" Sometimes I wondered if Harry could read my mind. She was looking up from her book at the table, her hair plaited back despite it not being a school morning. "Who'd snatch Johnny? Although I guess he's fat enough to be roasted –"

"Harry!" Mum and Aunt Petunia looked at her sharply.

"Sorry." She didn't sound sorry.

"It's mostly hikers, campers. People who stay in the woods overnight." Aunt Petunia looked out the kitchen window. "Not trying to scare you, Johnny. Just trying to warn you. Don't get lost, and get back before sundown."

"Aunty's right. Be a good boy, okay?" Mum kissed my forehead. "Mummy loves you."

I ran outside, to freedom and morning sunshine. The grass in the backyard was freshly cut and the summer flowers were blooming. Aunt Petunia's favourite pair of gardening gloves sat next to her trowel and watering can near the bed of roses.

There were dirt trails leading into the forest, and I ran down one of them with Uncle Billy's compass in my pocket. The trees loomed up over my head, and it still seemed to be early morning underneath the leaves, with the mist still hovering over the ground. I thought about the disappearances and shivered slightly, wishing I'd brought a jumper.

After a moment the spooks passed over and I looked around to find a tree for the treehouse. I didn't really know what I'd do after I found the tree, but since all the big adventurers had a tree house I thought I'd make one, too. I could pretend I was one of those big adventurers and hide from Harry's grumpiness in there. I'd make a big sign that said "JOHN WATSON'S TREEHOUSE NO GIRLS ALLOWED" in big red letters.

"Avast, ye mateys! Captain John Watson o' the Skulls n' Crossbones ahoy!" I was now a fearless pirate of the high seas, searching for booty and boats to plunder. Grabbing a small branch from the ground, I swung it about like a cutlass. "Captain John Watson don't take no prisoners! Drop yer weapons and prepare to be boarded!"

I stabbed a tree in the knothole. "Take that, ye scurvy dogs! Hiya! Hiya! Arr, shiver me timbers!" My knee wasn't hurting a lot by now, but I didn't want to take the plaster off. It'd only hurt again. I swung at the tree again, and started climbing. I scraped my right knee this time.

"Arr! Captain John Watson has found the treasure!" I bounced slightly on the branch and wondered if I could build anything on it. Uncle Billy's compass was a small weight against my leg.

There came a rustling from the nearby bush. Immediately I wasn't Captain John Watson, but just plain ol' John Watson again. A boy with light brown hair and an umbrella popped out of the bush, looked around, and popped back down once more. I frowned slightly.

"Hey, you! I don't think I've seen you before!"

"Shh!" the boy's eyes appeared from above the bush. He frowned at me. "Keep it down, won't you?"

I shut up immediately. The boy looked older than me, after all.

There came more footsteps from behind me. I turned around to see who it was, hoping it wasn't whatever giant monster that had taken the other people in the forest. My breath let out when I saw that it was just a boy who looked a bit younger than me. He was almost like a stick, a pale stick with curly black hair. He was dressed like one of those prissy posh boys who go to private schools – and come to think of it, the boy with the umbrella was dressed the same.

I frowned. He looked up and saw me, but I don't think he recognised me – and really, I didn't recognise him, either. He walked over to the side of the road and knelt down, looking at something in the grass. I tried to see what he was looking at. He nearly covered all of it.

The pale stick boy carried three bags, two of which were full of something and the third empty. He also had a magnifying glass in his hands that looked far too big for a kid. As I watched, he started picking things off the ground and looking at them through his glass. Some of them he tossed away. Others he put into the bag.

I was really curious about the boy. I could see the umbrella boy watching him through the bushes, too. He wasn't doing anything, though. The pale stick boy's bags looked really interesting, and I wanted to see what was in there. What was he doing? Why hadn't I seen him before? I leaned out to jump off the branch, but I leaned out a little too much and –

SLAM!

Pain burst everywhere, especially in my knees and hands. I kept my head to the ground, wondering how many band-aids it was going to take. I didn't like this morning, not at all.

I heard voices.

"Mycroft, what are you doing here?"

"Watching."

"Well, don't just stand there in the bushes and watch, get me bandaids and antiseptic!"

I heard the sound of the umbrella boy – Mycroft, was it? – running off and then there was a poke at my side.

"I'm fine," I muttered into the ground.

"No, you're not; you just sustained a fall from a branch four feet off the ground and you landed on all fours, which means that most of the impact was sustained by your knees and palms. There are rocks in the ground, so you may be bleeding. You're lucky your nose isn't, too. Because the dirt isn't exactly the safest place, it would be safe to deduce that you need first aid of some sort. Even minor cuts can get infected with the state of the ground like this."

Did all of that just come out of the _stick boy_'s mouth?

"You're also lucky my brother Mycroft feels athletic this morning because he's usually a lazy sod." I slowly raised my head to meet the stick boy's amused face. His eyes were grey-blue. "The name's Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson," I replied. Sherlock looked at my knees and palms; the knee scrapes had reopened but the palms only suffered bad dents from the ground.

"As I suspected. We'll have to clean and dress your knee."

"I know that," I muttered. "I fell down the stairs this morning."

"What was that like?" Sherlock asked, with all the curiosity of a scientist. I frowned at him.

"Hurt a lot. So you live in the big mansion, don't you?"

"Yeah. So?"

"I've been here every summer for the past nine years and I've never seen you."

"I'm five," he replied, as if it was no big deal. I frowned.

"You don't look or sound five."

"So?"

"So you're really tall and smart."

Sherlock tilted his head and stared at me for a long moment. Finally, he said again:

"You're rather popular at school because you're the fastest runner at break and everyone wants you on their team. However, you read and write a lot and you rather like writing. You're here to find a tree for a treehouse, but you have no idea how to build one. You imagine yourself as a brave explorer and you are prone to flights of fancy when you are in the forest, something that makes you love going here every summer to visit your aunt in the cottage next door. On the other hand, your sister detests the place because she can't bear a summer without her friend Clara."

I frowned at him. "How did you even…"

"It's very simple." As I leaned across the tree I fell out of, Sherlock sat down from across from me. "You have a callus on your finger from holding a pencil, and while that could also suggest that you draw I see no grey shadow on the underside of your pinky from past cases of excessive graphite. You're also wearing a Hardy Boys t-shirt, which suggests that you read their tales – interesting fellows, but they don't rely on deduction as well as I do so I can hardly look up to them. Your cottage and my house are the only houses in this particular area with any children, so I can assume that the girl I saw skulking in your garden earlier was your sister. I bumped into her as she returned from the woods; she carried a letter from a girl named Clara that had three kisses on it. When I saw you, you were sitting on the branch swinging your feet, looking around at the other tree branches as if assessing their strength for a tree house. There is a stick in your hand that obviously had been a prop from an earlier daydream."

"What about being popular?"

"Sturdy, strong legs, athletic build. No-brainer on that."

I thought it was quite the brainer. "Wow. That's really cool," I mumbled as Mycroft came running back with the first aid kit, wheezing as if his life depended on it. "Do you do that a lot?"

"Do what?" Mycroft asked.

"He looked at me and told me a lot about myself. I didn't say anything," I replied, pointing to Sherlock. Opening the kit, I grabbed some gauze and antiseptic and started cleaning my wounds, peeling away the old band-aid to be refreshed. "Does he do that a lot?"

"Every time he meets someone new," sighed Sherlock's older brother. "Drives my friends nuts."

"They always tell me to piss off," Sherlock added. My eyes widened slightly.

"That's not very nice," I pointed out. Sherlock shrugged.

"You're probably wondering about my collection," he continued, and I kept on wondering if he'd read my mind. "I'm a bit of a scientist, you see. I keep specimens. Right now I'm trying to collect all of the bugs in this forest – all of the different bugs, that is."

"Different species of bugs," corrected Mycroft.

"I'd like it more if you didn't spy on me all the time," Sherlock retorted.

"Can't I worry about you?"

"No. I don't need to be coddled, least of all by you."

Mycroft seemed to take it in stride. I thought of me and Harry, only with Harry in Sherlock's place. Mycroft started twirling his umbrella as I put my plasters on. Both knees, now.

"It's really weird. I've never seen either of you since now. Why now?"

"I try to stay in the house," Mycroft replied with a shrug. "Except now Sherlock's gotten bored of staying inside and wants to go outside all the time; I have to keep an eye on him."

"Oh." I frowned. Sherlock packed the first-aid kit. "Well, it's nice meeting you two."

"Indeed." Mycroft smiled, taking the first-aid kit from his brother. Sherlock collected his bugs. "It'd always be nice if we met up again throughout this summer. Sherlock's not the type to make friends easily, I'm afraid, but your company can do him wonders."

"Okay." I really had nothing else to say, especially since Harry had appeared waving at me. "Gotta go to lunch. We can meet up here in the afternoon or something! I'm sure there's… lots more bugs to collect…"

"We'll see," Mycroft said smoothly, taking his brother's hand. "Come along now, Sherlock."

And they walked off in the other direction towards their house, leaving me with two bandaged knees and a smile on my face.


	2. A Missing Crystal Necklace

**Part II**

"Arr! The fearsome scourge o' the high seas, the Dread Pirate Sherlock Holmes, is on th'unt fer a grand treasure wi'is trusty companion Cap'n John Watson –"

"Hold on, hold on. I'm older, so you're my companion." I crossed my arms and pouted. "I'm the _Cap'n_!"

We were back at the tree in the afternoon, Mycroft hidden in the bushes nearby with a filched box of chocolates. Sherlock had brought his magnifying glass; it stuck out of the pocket of his trousers.

"Yes, but I ain't on yer crew. I be a rogue pirate who's wi'yer crew to search fer'is treasure." That was the thing about Sherlock; he knew how to make it sound right. He knew how to make sense – at least, after he explained everything that happened in his funny head. After that, it wasn't hard to understand him after.

"Fair 'nough. What sort o' treasure we be lookin' for, Pirate Sherlock?"

"That's _Dread Pirate_ Sherlock to ye, Cap'n," Sherlock drawled, waving his branch-cutlass. "And we be lookin fer me mummy's lost necklace!"

"Your mum's –"

"Me mummy prized an ol' necklace that's bin in th'Holmes family fer gen'rations. She lost it las'week. I'd a-been lookin' fer it e'erywhere."

"Did you, really?"

Sherlock frowned at me and dropped the pirate façade. "Yes. She misplaced it last month, or so she thought. I've searched all over the house. It's been stolen."

"You sure she didn't leave it outside?" I tilted my head to the side, frowning.

"Already checked. No success. The necklace had ten Swarovski crystals set in it. They shine almost like diamonds."

I wondered if my mum had ever owned anything that looked like a diamond.

"I also asked the maid, butler, and cook about the necklace; they had solid alibis." Sherlock poked the ground with his stick. "But since none of them had a fake leg –"

"A fake leg?"

"Yes, I'd also investigated Mummy's room. There were footprints and odd fingerprints all over the bureau where the necklace was stored. Two different sets of footprints – one by a short person with big feet, and the other by a taller person with a fake leg."

"All that from footprints?" I was a bit awed, to say the least. How'd he figure that out? He was only five!

"There was lots of mud on the ground below Mummy's window, so it wasn't hard to tell." Sherlock's grin was mischievous. "And the fingerprints were barely there but I know Mummy polishes her jewellery box before leaving the room in the morning and before going to bed."

"Couldn't some of the prints have been hers?"

"Other than that and on special occasions, she never touches the box."

I nodded, looking down at the ground. Sherlock was definitely the smartest and oddest five-year-old I had ever met. He seemed like a grown-up in a kid's body. I was awed.

"You have any ideas who the other thief is?" I asked after a moment. Sherlock shrugged.

"Couldn't be Mycroft; he was watching me practise violin at the time. And you and your sister weren't here, so…"

"So complete strangers broke into your house and stole the necklace, I get it." I nodded, standing up and dusting off my shorts. "But it's been a week. You still haven't solved it? I suppose I wouldn't be any help –"

"Outside opinions. They're useful." Sherlock smiled and stood up, dusting off his trousers as well. "I took photographs. Come to my house. I'll show you."

* * *

><p>I'd never been to the Holmes mansion, even though it was right next door. I knew it was big and old looking, with ivy on the stone walls and roofs like the roofs of those old French houses. Weren't they called chateaus? Anyway, sometimes when the moon was full and there were no lights in the house it looked a lot like a haunted mansion. But now as Sherlock took me to the gate that led into their back yard (Mycroft was trailing us, still eating his chocolates), I looked up at the mansion and thought it really didn't look so creepy after all.<p>

But then again, the sun was still up.

From Sherlock's room I could see my own house and what was probably my window (it looked like the right height and the right spot). Sherlock's window, however, was way bigger and had a big ledge for sitting. It wasn't good for sitting right now, though, because he'd covered it in his bug collection.

Sherlock walked over to his desk and pulled out a set of photographs for me to look at. His hand had been wobbly with the camera, though, so the footprints were a bit blurry. But there was no mistaking their shapes.

"How could you tell that one of the thieves was shorter than the other?" I asked.

Sherlock pointed to one of the photographs. "See the distance between them? The shorter you are, the shorter the distance between."

"What if they're on tip-toes?"

"Only half of the shoe would show."

I continued to frown at the photograph. "How do you think they got in?"

"Door was locked. Window was open. There's ivy below, so they must have used it to climb in and out."

"I don't know if I want to climb up the side of your house if I had a fake leg," I remarked.

He nodded in agreement. "I think the shorter one climbed up first and then pulled up the taller one."

At that moment, the door to Sherlock's room opened and a tall, dark-haired woman stood there, smiling. I smiled, too, but I felt shy. Really shy. She looked like she was Sherlock's mum, and she was really pretty.

"Sherlock, is this the friend Mycroft said you brought in?" Sherlock's mum asked kindly, still smiling at me as I squirmed and blushed at her. Sherlock nodded solemnly.

"He's from next door. John Watson."

"Well, nice to meet you, John."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes," I mumbled.

Mrs. Holmes stepped into the room and ruffled her son's hair. "It's nice of you to play with my Sherlock; he's usually so quiet and keeps to himself."

"No problem," I replied, still looking uncomfortable. Mrs. Holmes redirected her smile at Sherlock, who only pouted and crossed his arms.

"Now boys, it'd be a shame to spend the rest of this pretty afternoon inside, wouldn't it? Go outside. Have fun! Only make sure you're back in before sundown – the disappearances of hikers and campers are a little scary."

"Aunt Petunia said something like that this morning," I remarked, touching Uncle Billy's compass for comfort.

"If you don't get home before sundown we can always drive you there. Don't you worry, John." Mrs. Holmes turned tail and swept out of the room. I looked over at Sherlock, who shifted from one foot to the other and shrugged at me.

We started to head outside to savour the rest of the afternoon. "Did you hear about the disappearances?" I asked as soon as we were in the woods. Sherlock was thoughtfully twirling his magnifying glass in his hands, and I thought for a moment that he was ignoring me.

He wasn't.

"I'd heard about the disappearances, yes. The first one was on Monday. Hiker. Amateur treasure hunter, too, if the papers are telling the truth. The second one was on Wednesday. Camper. The most recent one was yesterday. Hiker."

"They're all grown-ups, right?" I think I looked a bit too pale, because he quickly nodded.

"They're all adults who stayed in the woods overnight for some reason."

"Well… isn't the forest… _haunted_?"

"Haunted?" scoffed Sherlock, scuffing the ground with a snicker. "This is the Cotswolds. It's supposed to be one of the most haunted places in all of England. But that's not true. That's all superstition."

"But Harry said she saw the headless horseman outside Chavenage House and the chambermaid in Sudeley Castle –"

"John, seriously." Sherlock grabbed me by the shoulders, something a bit shocking from a five-year-old boy. "There are no such things as ghosts."

"Y-you can s-say that in the daylight all you like," I stammered.

Sherlock smirked. "I could say it at night-time, too."

"Y-yeah, well, you live in a haunted house."

"It's not haunted."

"Looks c-creepy enough by moonlight."

Sherlock grabbed a tree branch and drew lines across the ground. "Look, John, ghosts couldn't have taken the hikers and campers. You can't touch a ghost, so a ghost can't touch you."

"How do you know –"

"They don't even exist. But for the sake of argument, I'm saying that a ghost cannot possess a corporeal form and therefore cannot do any sort of lasting physical damage to a human. Therefore ghosts could not have kidnapped the hikers and campers."

I crossed my arms, shivering slightly when a cold wind blew past. Sherlock found a sunny spot and started burning ants with his magnifying glass. I watched him work in fascination.

"You're saying then that something not a ghost made them disappear? Like a murderer?"

"A murderer? We don't know yet. They haven't found bodies, only gear." Sherlock seemed totally intent on frying one of the ants in the parade, the one with the huge leaf over its head. "Chances are, it was a wild animal. But then there's the lack of animal tracks at the site."

"You've seen the site?"

"No, the paper didn't talk about them."

I grinned. "Then tomorrow we'll go find the sites."

"And look for data? Excellent idea." Sherlock leapt up. "Just what I needed to relieve my boredom!"

"I thought collecting bugs was interesting."

"Boring." Sherlock shrugged. "Investigating disappearances is so much more interesting."

At that moment, I thought of something. "What if, Sherlock! What if there's a person responsible for the disappearances, and he's the same as the thief –"

He shook his head, mysterious as ever. "Don't jump to conclusions, John; we need to see the data first."

"Oh, okay. Pirates?"

"O' course!"

* * *

><p>We played pirates for the rest of the afternoon. The fearless Captain John Watson, along with the Dread Pirate Sherlock, discovered hidden treasure (a trove of mushrooms) under a tree and hid it all in a secret grove deeper in the woods, below a bush that had thorns that could tear clothes to shreds. Sherlock seemed interested in helping me build my treehouse as well, and suggested that we make Mycroft carry the wood that would be used for the house. We then started to form a club, our very own club. Sherlock wanted it to be called the Baker Street Sleuths, but I wasn't sure what he was going on about.<p>

We didn't come up with a club name in the end, but we did come up with a signal system using blinking torches. After all, our windows were almost across from each other. By that time, the sun was starting to set. So, I raced through twilit forest path, heart beating furiously, trying to get home before it really got dark and I started fearing the ghosts. Sherlock could say all he wanted about ghosts not existing, but I believed.

That night before I went to sleep, I looked out the window to see a little speck of light in Sherlock's room. Watching the lights flash on and off in a message, I was sure it was going to be an exciting summer.


	3. Blanket Forts and Treasure Maps

**Notes:** Changed the disappearance of the necklace to last week instead of last month. Makes more sense that way timeline-wise.

* * *

><p><strong>Part III<strong>

The next morning found me scarfing down toast with strawberry jam, grabbing my jumper, and racing out the door at the first opportunity. Mum looked alarmed, but she didn't call me back so I ran faster and faster into the forest with the compass in my pocket and a magnifying glass (found it in Uncle Billy's study last night) in my hand. Now Sherlock and I could both use magnifying glasses and it'd help us solve the mystery of the disappearances and the missing necklace, right?

True, I think he did know what he was doing with the magnifying glass. I didn't really.

Sherlock was waiting for me in our clearing where we buried the mushroom-treasure yesterday. He looked bright-eyed and alert, obviously excited about the mystery. Even more excited than me, in fact. I suppose it was because it was a puzzle he could piece together with his knowledge. He was just raring for the chance.

"Oh good, you finally made it. I was getting so bored sitting here," he chirped as I stopped in front of him.

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"I was bored," drawled Sherlock, twirling his magnifying glass again. "Bored! Bored! Bored!"

I couldn't help but laugh. Sherlock was pouting as he said that, in a way that really showed that he could still be five sometimes. "Well, now I'm here," I chuckled, causing Sherlock's pout to deepen.

"It's not funny," he muttered. "When I'm bored my brain rots."

"And ooze out your ears?"

"Can't do that, but sure. Maybe someday I'll make that an experiment."

"Good idea." I smiled brightly. "So, now I'm here. We can go investigate!"

Off we ran through the forest. Sherlock had found the location of the most recent disappearance – it was next to the pond in the heart of the forest, according to the papers. When we got there, the site had been marked off by the police yet there were no policemen in sight.

"Excellent. An opportunity to sleuth without police interference." Sherlock looked as if Christmas had come early. He rubbed his hands gleefully, grabbed the magnifying glass, and immediately set off around the crime scene looking for clues.

I stood there awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the next. "What do I look for?" I asked cautiously. I suppose the obvious thing would be footprints, but there were just so many of them on the ground that I supposed even Sherlock would be baffled.

And so he was. "Ugh, the police have messed it all up. I can't see anything interesting in the footprints. But hey! There's something here." He pointed to a pile of ash. "Cigarette ash."

"Do you know who it's from?"

"No idea. However, the chances of it being the hiker's cigarette are less than the chances of it being someone else's. Maybe a policeman or the person who abducted the hiker!"

I started walking around the site as well. The hiker's things had obviously been taken away, which meant that the site in and of itself was not much of a help. At least, to me it wasn't. I'm sure Sherlock found _some_thing, at least.

"Well?" I asked after a moment. "I'm confused. You got anything?"

"Not much." Sherlock was wandering outside the scene, poking around in the bushes for something. "Aha!"

"Aha?" I scrambled to join my friend, who was training his magnifying glass on a series of footprints in the nearby bushes. "Those… aren't those the footprints you showed me yesterday?"

"Exactly! Good memory, John!" Sherlock grinned at me, as if I wasn't the older one. Well, he was practically my height anyway. Still didn't make it fair. "These are the footprints of the fake-leg man and the… short person. Can't tell if it's a kid or an adult right now, but I'm sure I'll find something." His blue eyes shined with excitement. "This suggests that your guess yesterday could actually be correct!"

I felt really happy that we'd come to the same conclusion. "So, now what?"

"Now… now we figure out why they're doing all of this. You see, I haven't totally accepted your hypothesis yet. They could be just bystanders, after all. I need to know exactly what it is that brings hikers and campers into this part of the Cotswolds and what our robbers have to do with their disappearance."

"Okay." I looked up at the towering trees and the first sneaking patterns of sunlight below the leaves. "Are we going to look for more clues?"

"We can't find anything else in here; all the data's gone. Same for the other two sites. We'll make do with what we have, but in the meantime, we can get started on the treehouse."

He really didn't sound like a five-year-old. It scared me a bit.

* * *

><p>I quickly found out that Sherlock Holmes knew a lot of things. He knew which plants in the forest were eatable and which could give you stomach-aches for days on end. He knew the various types of bugs and birds in various parts of the forest, and the colour of the mud in different areas. He knew different footprint patterns and all sorts of bird-calls.<p>

But one thing he did not know about was how to build a treehouse.

True, he at least had an idea about how to support everything and what sorts of trees would work, but he had no idea how to actually build something. Mycroft must have been relieved at not having to carry lumber for us, because I could have sworn I heard him sigh in relief in a nearby bush. The leaves did rustle a bit.

"Does your brother _have_ to follow us all over the place?" I asked Sherlock as we walked over to his house to find blankets, poles, and string. Instead of having a treehouse, we could have a tree-fort made out of blankets. That, at least, was more doable even if the maid, a kind old lady named Mrs. Hudson, complained about us ruining her sheets.

"I'd just washed them this morning, Sherlock, you'll just get them dirty again," she sighed as she rummaged in the linen closet for us. "You're always making such a mess in your room, dear."

"Experiments, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied as I staggered slightly under the weight of the blankets and poles (mop and broom handles, mostly, as well as a rake).

"And is this an experiment, too?" Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes.

"No, it's a fort. A blanket fort in the forest."

Mrs. Hudson nearly dropped her sheets. "In the forest?" she demanded.

Sherlock nodded. I sniggered.

"Young man, I certainly won't have any of that!" Mrs. Hudson turned to glare at Sherlock, hands planted on her hips. "I have already resigned myself to the inevitable fact of you soiling my freshly-laundered sheets in the house; I will not have you taking them into the forest!"

"But we're going camping, Mrs. Hudson!"

"I won't hear of it! Go camping in the playroom."

"Playrooms are dull," sniffed Sherlock.

But in the end, Mrs. Hudson won the battle and we had to set up camp in the playroom instead of the forest. "Shame; it's not going to feel the same without the trees," I remarked as we started placing chairs and tables around the fort. Sherlock tied up the blankets and sheets with a thunderous face.

"I'll miss out on any new disappearances," he grumbled. "It's not _fair_."

"Well, I'm sure when you grow up and become a private detective you'll get to camp in the woods whenever you want," I consoled, weighting down the edges of a blanket with several heavy books.

Sherlock sneered. "Private detectives? What use is there for private detectives?"

"Fenton Hardy's a private detective."

"Police don't go to private detectives."

"Then why'd they –"

"My dear John." Sherlock put his hands on my shoulders, smiling like someone trying to explain why the Earth was round. "You can't believe everything they say in the Hardy Boys."

"Well, it is American and all –"

"No, that's got nothing to do with it. Private detectives are called private because ordinary people go to them. Not the police. Unless they're off duty, that is. I don't see any use in being a private detective, because then you have to worry about money and business and it all gets in the way of the work." He paused. "Why'd you think I was going to be a detective?"

"You looked so happy about a mystery." I shrugged. "I guess it just comes naturally to you."

"I see." Sherlock smirked slightly. "In any case, I'm not going to follow in anyone else's footsteps. I'll be a consulting detective when I grow up."

"Does that even exist?"

"It does now." Sherlock grinned and ducked into the blanket fort. "You coming in or what?"

* * *

><p>Mrs. Holmes allowed Sherlock to go over to my place in the afternoon, so we set off for my house down the main road instead of the forest. It didn't take us very long, but when we got to the cottage there was a police car next to Mum's car.<p>

I got scared. Really scared. I ran for the door, Sherlock racing after me with his magnifying glass in his hands (he had been looking at some weeds with it). Mum answered my knocking and nearly fell over as she scooped me up and hugged me ferociously.

"Oh Johnny, Johnny darling, thank God you're safe," she sobbed. "Don't go away for so long again, do you hear me? It's getting more and more dangerous –"

"What's happened?" I asked curiously. Sherlock had straightened up next to me; he seemed to be listening in.

"There's been another disappearance," he said before my mum could.

"Johnny, who's this?"

"Mum, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, meet my mum."

"Oh, you're one of the Holmes boys, then? In the house next door?"

"Yes, Mrs. Watson. Nice to meet you." Sherlock's face broke into a bright, innocent smile. I had trouble connecting him to the five-year-old genius that I had met barely yesterday and already considered a friend.

"Pleasure's all mine! And yes, how did you know that there's been another disappearance?"

"Well, John's been with me all day and you were really relieved at seeing him again, so I guess you hadn't seen him in a while and started becoming worried about him. That and there are policemen in the house which made you believe the worst." He paused, examining her as if trying to figure out her life story. "You don't have to worry."

"Those are kind words, Sherlock, but –"

"But I'll make sure he doesn't get hurt, Mrs. Watson."

I blushed slightly. "That's all good for you to say, Sherlock, but you're five," I muttered.

"So?"

Mum chuckled. "You're a darling. Come in here, come in. Meet Johnny's aunt Petunia – Tuney's just made fairy-cakes, would you like one?"

"No thanks, I don't eat while I'm on a job."

I gave Mum a look that said 'yes, he's like this a lot'. Sherlock had skipped lunch. According to the cook, a kind lady named Glenda who made brilliant pastries, he had skipped breakfast, too. Apparently digesting food slowed him down.

We squished together on an armchair across from the policeman, who was pouring himself a cup of tea. Harry was nowhere to be found. Aunt Petunia said she was in her room.

"So, what is this about disappearances, sir?" Sherlock asked the policeman. He looked up and smiled quickly before taking a sip of his tea.

"There's been another disappearance. Campers. Discovered this morning."

"What does the site look like?"

"Why would you want to know, sonny?"

"It interests me." Sherlock pressed his fingers together like a tent. "Whatever else is my own business."

The policeman looked surprised at Sherlock's reply. I sniggered.

"Right, well. I don't think it's much of a thing for kids," he said after a moment. "Too dangerous."

"I can deal with that."

"Brave of you to say so, lad, but no."

Sherlock sighed and nudged me. "What?" I hissed as Mum started talking to the policeman again. "Listen in on them!"

"I suppose," Sherlock muttered, and I could tell by his expression that he was listening, yes. "It's in the forest, of course. A clearing. Well, that's not going to help; there are lots of clearings there!"

"Shh!" I held my finger to my lips. The policeman looked sidelong at us; obviously he knew we were listening. After a moment he set down his cup and saucer, stood up, shook Mum's hand, and left the house. Aunt Petunia distractedly handed us two fairy-cakes.

"Mum, do you know where the disappearance happened?" I asked.

"It's in the forest. I don't think it's a good idea to let you boys play deep in the forest anymore."

"So the kidnapper was deep in the forest, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, not too far from the last one."

"That's a start," Sherlock whispered to me, smirking. I nodded.

"Could we go there, Mummy?"

"Go where?"

"To the place where the campers disappeared."

"Don't be absurd, Johnny; it's dangerous."

"Please, Mrs. Watson?" Sherlock pleaded. He winked at me before turning back to Mum with the biggest set of kicked-puppy eyes that I had ever seen. "Please? I'm looking for my Mummy's missing necklace and I think I might get clues with the disappearance. Please?"

Mum sighed. "I guess so," she said, stomping over to the coat rack to get her coat. "You super sleuths better stay close to me, though. I won't have you disappearing on me when we get there."

* * *

><p>We got to the second crime scene just as the policeman from earlier arrived. There were some other policemen, too, and they were all poking around in the tents and supplies, looking for information.<p>

"The victims left identification this time," I heard someone say. "Twin campers. Bartholomew and Thaddeus Sholto."

"What sort of identification? Credit cards? Run those through if you've got them."

"Wealthy campers," Sherlock whispered to me. "Look at the size of that tent. Fits all of their gear, and high-tech gear, too, judging by what the police are carting out."

"We should look for more footprints!" I added. "Maybe in the bushes –"

"We'll do that after we get more information on these campers," hissed Sherlock. We looked up at Mum, who had been distracted by an inspector named Lestrade. Sherlock winked at me. We ducked underneath the tape and ran into the tent.

"Why would these campers camp over here when they've got so much other things they could do with their money?" Sherlock muttered as he prowled about the huge tent with his magnifying glass out. I tried to follow him, but I didn't know what he was looking for. "Look at the state of their bedrolls and clothes."

"Couldn't the police have messed them up?"

"Muddy tracks outside this entrance."

"Won't the police be back in this tent any moment?" Even as I asked that, I could hear footsteps. Someone was coming back. "Quick!"

We hid ourselves behind two large crates of food. Sherlock grinned at me.

"Listen. They're talking about the victims."

"Their last purchase with the credit cards," I murmured. Sherlock nodded and shushed me. He listened eagerly for a moment, but his expression fell.

"Nothing interesting."

"Really? They bought a book."

"On ghost stories."

I snickered. "But wouldn't that tie in? Ghost stories of the Cotswolds? Maybe one of the ghosts did –"

"John, how many times do I have to tell you? Ghosts do not exist and they wouldn't be able to drag these two brothers away. Judging by the size of their sleeping bags, I think they're rather fat, too."

I giggled. "Maybe they got spooked out and bolted."

"That could be the case." Sherlock frowned. "Let's find the book. As soon as the police leave the tent…"

The footsteps of the police receded. Sherlock sprang out of his hiding spot and started rummaging through the nearby crates. "Ghost stories… ghost stories…"

I dove into the crate with him. "Hey," I hissed suddenly, pulling up a book. "This it?"

"_Haunted Cotswolds_! That works!" Sherlock grinned at me. I opened it, and a paper fell to my feet. Sherlock bent down and picked it up. "What's that?"

"It's a picture." Sherlock frowned. "Scratch that, make it a map."

"A map?"

"Wait, no. It's not just any map. It's a treasure map."

"What? No!"

"Not an ancient treasure, though, judging by the paper. Rather recent. I guess it's a new treasure that's sprung up. We'll take a look at this outside, won't we? Put the book back."

When we left the tent, Mum was waiting for us with her hands on her hips and a stern expression on her face. My heart sank.

"Boys, I told you to stay within sight," she snarled. I backed away slightly.

"Sorry?" I offered. Sherlock grinned just as guiltily.

"We found something though," he offered, waving the map. "A treasure map! It's of this forest, but it's kinda badly-drawn so I'm not sure where X is exactly. Still…" he trailed off, making me curious. I looked over at the picture.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock pointed to the dot that said 'HOLMES MANSION' on it. Aunt Petunia's cottage wasn't there, but Sherlock's mansion was.

I frowned and felt the mystery thicken in my head.


End file.
